


of lilac and streetlights

by julie4697



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-atypical Softness, First Kiss, M/M, Unconventional Confessions of Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie4697/pseuds/julie4697
Summary: “Martin.” Jon turns to face him under the streetlamp. “Just let me walk you home. Or just to the tube station, if you prefer. We don’t… have to talk. But-“ He falters, suddenly very tired. "Please.”





	of lilac and streetlights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalgalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/gifts).



> For Kalgalen, who wrote me a wonderful first kiss ficlet on tumblr and whom I wanted to pay back with this fic except it massively ran away from me the way these things tend to do. This is somehow both less and more fluffy than what you wrote me, Mer, and I'm not sure how it turned out but I hope it isn't disastrous?

Martin still comes and goes. Of this Jon is certain. It’s only a matter of patience, then.

 

When the lights finally switch off in the main hall of the Institute—the front desk, normally occupied by Rosie, now long vacated—Jon stands up like a shot. His back protests momentarily from the hours of sitting still, hunkered against the wall, but when he hears Martin’s footsteps make their way across to the front gate, Jon darts forward in the dark and reaches out, grabs him by the shoulder. The small noise of shock Martin makes sends something like a dull ache darting through Jon’s lungs.

 

“Jon?”

 

He tightens his grip on Martin’s shoulder, leads him out the door. “Martin. I’ll take you home.”

 

Martin tries to wrench his shoulder out of his hold, but Jon is strong, stronger than he ever was before. “Jon- no, please, I can’t-”

 

“Work hours are over,” Jon insists quietly. The night air is cool and crisp on their faces. “And you don’t answer to Lukas until tomorrow morning.”

 

“I really don’t- Jon-”

 

“Martin.” Jon turns to face him under the streetlamp. “Just let me walk you home. Or just to the tube station, if you prefer. We don’t… have to talk. But-“ He falters, suddenly very tired. "Please.”

 

There is a silence, during which Martin’s entire self seems to judder for a bit like static on an old television, and Jon thinks momentarily that he’s lost him; but the feeling passes, and his sweater is still as solid under Jon’s hand as ever when Martin heaves a sigh and murmurs, “Just to the station, then.”

 

Jon’s aware, acutely so, that he is stepping out into a danger zone. Immediately as he walks out onto the curb he can feel eyes on him; hundreds of them, invisible, hungry, focused on the Archivist and his unhappy escort. It’s close to 1am, the hours creeping into the depths of the night when fears start to press at the back of one’s mind. The streets are empty, too empty even for a weekday night, and Jon finds himself linking his arm around Martin’s. If he ends up dying taking Martin home, Jon muses wryly, that would be a hell of an end. But it’s not for his own safety that he is most worried.

 

They walk along in silence. Jon becomes aware that Martin isn’t just being static-strange; he’s actually shaking, his shoulders spasming slightly under his thin sweater, even though the April air is balmy and sweet. The scent of a nearby lilac tree carries to where they are and for a moment Jon feels a sudden displacement wash over him; they could be an ordinary couple like this, one walking the other home past midnight. They might argue for a bit over whether to just call a cab until they reach the tube station, where they would hug, perhaps a little regretfully, and say their always-temporary goodbyes. They would promise to see each other again, maybe even set another date, and part ways, with the glow of future reunion still settled warm in their chest. Nothing would feel so uncertain and fragile as it does now. Martin wouldn’t be trembling the way he is now, in a way that makes Jon desperately want to look him in the eyes and give him a comforting lie. The idea of what he’s about to do, the gravity of what he’s about to tell him, wouldn’t send anything more than a few butterflies fluttering in Jon's stomach, instead of the heavy pit of dread and near-grief that is currently taking form there. Were this an ordinary night, were they any other people-

 

But the station is already looming before them, and Jon hasn’t gotten a word in edgewise between his own thoughts. The harsh whiteness of the UNDERGROUND sign feels accusatory, and the greenish light filtering in from the station mirrors the sick jolt in Jon’s chest as he realizes Martin has slipped his arm away from Jon’s.

 

“The, um. The last train’s coming soon,” he says, voice low. “I’ve got to go, Jon. Th- thanks for walking me here.”

 

Jon inhales sharply. “Martin, I-”

 

The words do not come. The words will never come, Jon understands in that moment, no matter how desperately he tries to scream them out from his own mind. Jon can see and know with terrifying certainty, draw answers from others’ lips like a death sentence, but nothing allows him to disseminate his thoughts and feelings exactly the way he needs. His curse is to know, and yet somehow never to let himself be known. Unless-

 

Unless-

 

His hand reaches out and grabs Martin’s wrist upon instinct, his eyes locking onto Martin’s. Cold static begins to buzz up his spine.

 

“Jon?” Martin flinches like a burned man. “What are you-“

 

Something is burning behind Jon’s eyes; a roaring is filling his ears. Jon can’t tell if that’s his own heartbeat or Martin’s that he’s hearing; he doesn’t even know if either of them have a heartbeat anymore to speak of, but he doesn’t want to find out. Every inch of his being seems to concentrate into a single point. Martin has to know, he must, he needs to know that Jon can’t let the Lonely have him, he has to know-

 

“Jon!”

 

A pained sound escapes Jon’s lips even as he struggles. All the emptiness of the past weeks comes flooding back into him, all the yearning opening up a maw inside him like a black hole, all of it blurring together into a morass of half-written notes, of empty mugs of tea, of unrecorded messages-

 

Martin gasps and stumbles properly backwards, nearly knocking into the wall of the tube station, and tears his wrist out of Jon’s grasp. Both of them stand for a bit, panting for air, and Jon realizes that the heat behind his eyes has flowed out of them and is now running down his face. Hastily, he wipes it away with his sleeve before mutely turning to face Martin again, who looks for all the world like he’s just been slapped.

 

When Martin speaks, his voice is thick and wet. “I-“ He clears his throat, tries again. “I- I don’t-“ He shudders, utterly miserable; finally, he buries his face in his hands. His next words come out as a sob. "I love- I love you too, Jon. God. I love you. I always have.”

 

Something inside Jon shatters in blessed relief, and he takes two strides forward as if falling.

 

It’s so much easier, after that. He gently pries Martin’s hands from his face, leans forward with enough of a delay to allow him to pull away—he doesn’t. Kissing Martin feels less like a choice and more an inevitability; _I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ Jon traces the words into Martin’s mouth, runs his fingers through his hair like a prayer. _I’m sorry,_ he whispers against his cheek before their lips slide back together again, at the wrong pace and clumsy as anything but soft and wanting. Faintly, as if from thousands of miles away, Jon hears the final train pulling out of the station, and he takes this cue to draw Martin even closer until he can nestle his face into the crook of his neck. One of them sighs, deep and content; or it might have been both of them relaxing into each other.

 

Martin is still shaking, a bit, but so is Jon. The rest of the world comes flooding back into his senses: Martin’s sweater against his cheek, the faint scent of cinnamon, the fizz of a faulty light bulb somewhere above. Jon’s breath is coming in short, ragged bursts; he shuts his eyes tight, fighting against the ebbing swirls of desperation still lapping at his mind. He’d known, all this time, somehow without registering, how long Martin has loved him, but it isn’t until this moment that Jon finds himself truly defeated under its weight; he is pinned, helpless, an insect under a glass, but for perhaps the first time in his life he does not regret the vulnerability.

 

“Might have to call a cab,” Martin mumbles, and Jon feels the vibration of his voice through his chest. Stubbornly, he tightens his arms around him.

 

“Stay in the Archives tonight,” he says. “It’s not… it may not be much, but the others will be there. I’ll be there. You can take the cot.”

 

“Jon.”

 

“We- we can share, if you want.” Even as he says it, embarrassment rushes hot across his face, but he presses on. “I’ll keep you safe.”

 

“That’s not- that isn’t what I’m afraid of.”

 

“Is it Lukas?” Jon pulls back a little, looks him in the eyes. “Martin. Listen to me. If Lukas tries anything-”

 

“It’s not that simple, Jon.” Already, Martin’s trying to draw away. “You can’t- you can’t promise anything. I know what I've gotten into.”

 

Jon takes Martin’s face in his hands. “Maybe- maybe you do. I trust you,” he says, hating how his voice falters even then. “But Martin, I just- I wish- I want you to just take tonight off,” he settles, “and if anything goes wrong from there I’ll take full responsibility. I promise.” He brushes his lips on Martin’s again, quick and furtive. “It’s… the least I can do.”

 

“You’ve done- no, Jon,” says Martin, but Jon can see he’s about to waver. “I still don’t think you understand.”

 

“Then _tell_ me.”

 

“Peter- he told me not to,” he breaks, finally, “and there’s just too much at stake for me to violate that. But when it’s all over, I’ll tell you everything, okay?” Martin says, and presses a kiss to Jon’s forehead. “That’s _my_ promise.”

 

 _You love me,_ Jon doesn’t say, _and I love you. That has to count for something. It shouldn’t still be like this._ But he says none of it. He can’t shake the feeling that somehow he’s being cajoled into something, like a recalcitrant child getting bribed into good behaviour, but the solidness of Martin’s presence is intoxicating, and he is so very tired. It must be well past half one now, and sleepiness is gritting into his eyes; up close, Martin’s dark circles are pronounced as well, and Jon wants nothing more than to see him safely asleep, preferably beside him.

 

“Right,” he says, leading Martin once again by the arm back the way they came. “But tonight we’ll stay in the Archives. I think Basira might even still be awake about now. She sleeps late,” he adds, “and Melanie’s taken to taking sleeping pills, and- did I mention she’s going to therapy now?”

 

“Mm,” Martin replies hazily. He leans a little against Jon’s shoulder as he walks, and Jon can’t help but smile when he sees him yawn.

 

They walk back under the lilac trees, beneath the orange glow of the streetlights, arms linked.

 

\---

 

(Basira, as it turns out, is already sleeping. Daisy's taken the other cot, so they have to skulk past the room where she is to avoid waking her and make their way to the break room where the couch is. It’s the only other thing in the Archives that could possibly hold both of them, and even then it’s an uncomfortably tight fit, so that Jon ends up practically on top of Martin in the end. He supposes it’s for the better; this way, Martin would be less likely to disappear in the night.

 

Before they go to sleep, Jon whispers, “I’m sorry, Martin.”

 

“You know, you keep saying that,” replies Martin, running a hand through Jon’s hair. “What are you sorry for?”

 

“For-” For being a monster? For not being able to tell him the simplest thing in the most normal way possible? For being in love with him at all? “For what I did. Back at the station.”

 

“Oh.” There’s a long silence that makes Jon wonder if Martin’s fallen asleep. Then: “It’s all right. It’s- it’s not like when Elias did it.”

 

“Elias- oh, God, what did he-” The wrenching memory of the tape comes rushing back. “Shit- when he- the plan-”

 

“Jon.” It’s a warning. “Don’t worry about it. Go to sleep.”

 

“Sorry,” Jon repeats numbly. “I just. I didn’t know how…”

 

Martin shifts his position until he can lean over and kiss Jon, slowly, almost languidly this time. Jon sighs against his mouth.

 

“If you apologize one more time, Jon,” says Martin, “I’m moving off this couch onto the floor.”

 

“Ah- please don’t.”

 

“Then go to sleep. We can talk about it in the morning.” There’s a firmness in the way he says _morning_ that leaves Jon feeling as if the sunrise is already inside him. “And I’m paying for breakfast.”

 

“Wait, no, you’re not,” Jon tries to protest; but relief is already pulling him down into the depths of sleep, and not even his usual nightmares can stop him from sinking.)

**Author's Note:**

> I actually don't know when the last trains run in the London Underground. Where I live the trains typically run to about 1am-ish so I assumed Central London would be the same. No, I do not know what research is, and if you make me do it I will call the police.
> 
> Anyway, you can find me on tumblr at agnesmontague. :) Comments and responses are always much appreciated.


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